


When Your White Count's Getting Higher

by HarmoniaChimera



Series: Kiss The Burns Away (Singsong Fallout Reacts) [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Drug Use, Fallout Reactions, Gen, Ghoulification, Ghouls, Hallucinations, Moral Lessons, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Vomiting, radiation, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 18:26:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18287816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmoniaChimera/pseuds/HarmoniaChimera
Summary: Anonymous asked: You think you could do a short story about what happened to Hancock right after he took the radiation drug? (Like what do you think that felt like? Do you think it involved a lot of puking? Do you think it was before or after he became mayor? Do you think at some point Hancock thought he was gonna die?) All I’ve gotta say is I figure ghoulification is very unpleasant and painful as all hell.





	When Your White Count's Getting Higher

**Author's Note:**

> [[Just to be clear, this is based on my own [monsterpost about ghoulification](http://dono-harm-totonystark.tumblr.com/post/168906728374/do-you-ever-wonder-if-the-experimental-drug) from a bit ago.  
> I figure his change “to become a better man” must’ve happened all at once. Personally, I kinda don’t see Hancock becoming mayor and THEN changing into a ghoul and people just being okay with it, especially since this process would have to take two weeks minimum. It must’ve been before he overthrew Vic, but we also know he was human when he was a drifter… so that leaves only one moment in his life when this could’ve happened.]]  
> [[And no, I don’t think he thought he was gonna die. I think he HOPED he was gonna die.]]

John brushed his blonde hair away from his face, leaning on his knees over the pill he rolled about in his hands. He wiped his tear-stained face with his sleeve. The image of Tom’s head split open on the sidewalk was still freshly seared in his mind, and John could see it every time he closed his eyes. Tom wasn’t his friend. They didn’t even like each other. But no one deserved such a fate. John remembered how he’d moved towards the body, for no reason he could think of, only to stop when one of Vic’s goons, a walking monster truck called Brett, of all names, had aimed at him with his submachine gun. “Whatcha gon’ do, McDonough?” he’d said mockingly, laughing when John  _had_ taken a step back, gritting his teeth. There really was nothing he could do, was there? Just like before. Just like always. There was nothing he could do. Or, he did everything he could. Or was it just something he was telling himself to be able to sleep at night? He stifled a sob as another wave of tears flowed down his face. He wasn’t even a man anymore. He was… next to nothing.

Might as well, right?

The pill was round and pretty big, a perfect sphere in all regards except for one small indentation probably marking the spot where it would start… John didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to escape the promenade of mistakes that his life was. The image of brains on cement. The bloody body parts scattered in the ruins. He exhaled sharply and swallowed the pill before he could change his mind, washing it down with a bottle of vodka as it made an impossible amount of stops down his oesophagus. Well. It’s done. No taking it back now. All he could do now was wa…

The pain began so abruptly it caught him completely unprepared. He doubled down, digging his fingers into his abdomen as it pierced through him, this debilitating power tearing at him from within. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t even scream as the pain spread to every part of his body, seemingly even to his bones… and then suddenly let go and diminished into nothing but odd discomfort in the pit of his stomach.

John pulled himself from the ground and sat back on the crate between one display and another in the Old State House storeroom. He could hear steps over his head, guards shifting places, completely unaware that he’d snuck in here just to fuck with them. Just because Vic said he wasn’t supposed to. And Vic was just two floors up, he thought to himself. Every fiber of John’s being wanted only to get his hands on a gun, go up there, and shoot that fucking bastard in the face. See  _his_ brains on the sidewalk. But that wasn’t going to happen, was it?

He gulped what was left of the vodka all at once––and in another minute, he was on all fours giving it all back to the floor. He cursed and grabbed some tarp to clean it up. Oh, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Fuck. It was hard enough to get in here under Vic’s guards’ noses; the last thing he needed was to alert them to his presence by gurgling his guts out and screaming in pain. Yet, somehow, through the mind-clouding nausea and head-splitting headache, he knew it was only going to get worse.

While he still could stand up and move around a little, he slid some display cases in to barricade the door. The last thing he needed was to be found out by someone while… Another wave of nausea sent him to his knees. He quickly latched on to a steel bucket he found in the corner, and when he raised his head, he could see there was blood mixed in with the vomit. Fuck. He could feel it pooling in his mouth, filling it with the taste of iron and… rot? Fuck. He spat it out into the bucket.

Then, fever hit. His strength was diminishing fast; soon, it was an exorbitant effort to even turn to the other side as he lay on the tarp on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chin like that was supposed to help with the cramps. Ohh, he was never going to tell another woman she was overreacting. This was karma punishing his ignorance, he was sure of it. And boy, did he deserve it on so many levels.

Could he just die yet?

He didn’t know how long he lay there––hours? days? weeks?––shivering, no, shaking, really, barely able to breathe, pain clawing at his body as he yearned for the end… His mind barely holding on, and yet still insanely clear. It was like living through every pain of his entire life… and surviving. If he could, he would’ve shot himself in the head right now, just to stop the pain, just to finally rid the world of himself; but also, there was something there… pulling on his consciousness like a child tugging at their mother’s skirt as his brother played nearby… something that wanted him to live. Something that stroked his head and said it would all be… just fine. But how could it? Heart pounding like crazy… Fighting for every breath… like living underwater… Water… Holy fuck, he was so thirsty… Everything was pain. Burning… Even through the haze he could feel his skin… falling off. Every move hurt more than the last, but… was he even moving? Or was he swimming? What was that?… Green skies?… A child…? What…?

 

When he awoke, he immediately retched out a dark, thick puddle of whatever was left of his stomach, apparently. Everything was… blurry and dark… Ugh, he still wasn’t fully there. Where was he, actually? Old State House? But… Fuck, he was so out of it. Even the worst trips he’d ever had were never this… Never like this. The pain was mostly gone now, though. At least that. John pulled himself from the tarp and saw his silhouette still perfectly painted on it in what looked like watered-down blood and… pieces of him. His hair was spread like an aureola around the place where his head just lay.

John wiped his face and nearly jumped out of his skin when he pulled off a good part off his nose straight off his head. He dropped in on the tarp. “What the actual fuck?” he mumbled. That was not how he expected this to go. As he pulled himself up on shaky arms, he suddenly felt how insanely hungry he was. Thankfully, he brought some food with him when he was coming down here, though tatoes were no longer an option. At least… Holy shit.

His gaze fell on his blurry reflection in one of the cleaner display cases and John couldn’t help but stare at how much had changed. There was a bony ridge jutting out from where he’d just pulled his nose off. His eyes were pitch black. Every bit of hair he ever had was gone. He couldn’t help but check, but yeah, down there, too. Geez, he should grow up.

For some reason, he couldn’t take his eyes off of that reflection. It still seemed surreal. But then, the world around still felt surreal, too. Was it really him? Did he really…? He stared at his hands, covered in scars and red burns. Hissed, pulling off some fingernails that still held on, even though crooked and clearly dead. God… What has he done to himself?

He fell back to his knees. His heart was pounding as he buried his face in his hands. It wasn’t supposed to be like this… This was supposed to fix him… or kill him. He was supposed to be dead. He didn’t deserve to live anyway, not after everything that had…

A shiver went through him. There was a hand stroking his head. He looked up and his black gaze fell into his mother’s warm, gray eyes. “It’ll all be fine,” she said with a comforting smile. “I still love you, baby, even if you’re someone else. It wasn’t your fault. None of it.” Then John blinked and she was gone, and for a second, he felt debilitatingly alone. But he wasn’t, was he? He wasn’t the only disembodied, homeless bastard in this town, in this world. But they were all huddled up, beaten down. Even though all it would take was for one single person to just… get up. And if there was anything John ever did wrong, it was waiting for someone else to get up first.

It was right there in front of him the entire time. ‘John Hancock’ written in faded, fancy letters above that silly outfit he’d laughed at before… all this. Before John Hancock.

Might as well, right?

 

 **Epilogue:**  
“Hi, Timmy, and thanks for the help,” he said to the drunk drifter he’d paid to keep an eye out for the guards when he’d been sneaking in.  
“Huuh?” Timmy replied, eyeing him mistrustfully. “Who the fuck are you? Where’s McDonough?”  
“He’s gone,” John replied, reveling in what he was about to say. “I’m John Hancock now. And don’t worry, pal…” He patted his shoulder. “…I’m gonna fight for us.”

**Author's Note:**

> **Original post:[HERE](https://atombombbagel.tumblr.com/post/169126869588/you-think-you-could-do-a-short-story-about-what)**


End file.
